


Flat White

by shiphitsthefan



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BAMF Women, Brienne Is A Mysterious Badass and Jaime's Got It Bad, Customers to Lovers, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 17:00:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12462060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: Jaime only knows her as, “Flat white; sub heavy whipping cream; two extra ristretto shots.” She always comes to Winterfell Coffee during the slowest parts of the day, so there’s never been a real need to ask for her name. Flat White is tall, strong and imposing; Jaime wonders, when he’s utterly bored, if the drink was named after her.“I’m honestly in awe of her ability to drink it,” Jaime tells Arya while they're closing up one night. “As far as constitution, the woman’s all muscles. All of them. Every muscle is more muscles. I think herbreastsmight be muscles,” and Jaime absolutelyisn’tstaring off into space. There’s simply an intriguing stone in the wall that’s caught his attention. Jaime wouldn’t daydream about getting pinned in place like a Naathian butterfly.Never.





	Flat White

**Author's Note:**

> I love coffee shop fics; I love Brienne and Jaime; I love it when a good plan comes together.
> 
> ...Wait, shit, wrong fandom.
> 
> Anyway, I've been shipping Brienne and Jaime since she started dragging his sassy ass back to King's Landing. Then my bestie started watching, and _she_ started shipping them, and now here we are, celebrating three milestones: my first Braime fic, my 32nd birthday, and my 75th overall fic posted on AO3.  <3
> 
> Warnings for one instance of excessive drinking, a briefly attempted assault (not between the main characters), and a surprisingly hilarious visit to the emergency room.

Jaime only knows her as, “Flat white; sub heavy whipping cream; two extra ristretto shots.” She always comes to Winterfell Coffee during the slowest parts of the day, so there’s never been a real need to ask for her name. Flat White is tall, strong and imposing; Jaime wonders, when he’s utterly bored, if the drink was named after her.

He tried asking once, and royally fucked it up before he even made it to the question.

“You know,” Jaime had said, aiming his voice south of teasing and north of flirting, “my mother always told me that too much caffeine would stunt your growth.” It was clumsy and stupid, but he’d only realized it once he heard it aloud. Jaime hadn’t even bothered to glance over at Arya; he knew her, “How are you so terrible at talking to her?” side-eye well enough to feel it aimed at his back from eight feet away.

Flat White’s face didn’t budge, stone-set, eyes still that unnerving ice. “Is that what happened to you?”

“Not everywhere,” and _Gods,_ that was idiotic, too, his words so rusty Jaime could hear his tongue creaking.

“More’s the pity.” Flat White laid the money—exact change; Jaime expected it was out of practicality—on the counter. She was so damn _stoic_ about buying coffee, and about working, and about sitting and typing and probably breathing. “Such a terrible burden it must be, to have a longsword and nowhere to sheath it.”

Sansa snorted, and Arya already had Flat White’s eponymous drink made, and Jaime had stood there in a rare silence far longer than necessary. One embarrassment was enough for him. The wench would have to give her name eventually.

Probably.

“What if we made a new policy?” Jaime suggested, having waited an entire four days, watching _probably_ turn to _maybe_ instead of _certainly._ “All orders must be accompanied by a title.”

“She’d say ‘title’ just to irritate you,” said Arya, deadpan as she flipped a bottle of caramel syrup, tossed and caught and launched again and again. “And then she’d be all smug watching you grumble and write ‘title’ on the cup.”

Day six: “Free flat white with every name from a person over six feet in height.” Sansa had glared, and then thrown a scone at him. It was delicious.

Day eleven: “I propose we offer a brunch special specifically for women who order flat whites and have eyes as—”

“Don’t you dare end that with ‘blue as sapphires’, Jaime.” Arya stopped slicing coffee cake; seeing her with a knife always made him uneasy. “The only cliche that works here is, ‘She probably eats men like you for breakfast.’”

Sansa grinned. “I bet that thought does terrible things to his not-everywhere.”

After having been repeatedly humiliated and foiled at every turn, Jaime continued to hope more fervently, but less audibly.

It’s been seventeen days now, however, and either the rest of the staff has decided out of cruelty not to tell him when she’s been there, or Jaime managed to completely push her away in less than a minute. Maybe someone else is substituting her heavy whipping cream or pouring her two extra ristretto shots. Flat White was witty, and Jaime knew from their sole encounter that verbal sparring with her would be delightful. The thought of Flat White’s talented tongue being employed with another barista other than him—

—and the thought has to end there, because Jaime can’t jack off at work.

Tonight’s shift has gone even more slowly than usual, though that’s the story for all of Jaime’s shifts recently. Granted, it’s his own fault for changing his schedule to what had been Flat White’s. Jaime’s too stubborn to admit defeat; to spend his time at work actually working instead of reading the romance novels Sansa leaves under the counter; to give up and take the early bird shifts again so he can feel sort of useful. Closing is a pain in the ass, but it does give Jaime the freedom to drink whatever he wants in peace, since Arya legitimately gives no shits when he works with her. With Sansa, she usually keeps to herself at the other end of the counter, tapping away on her tablet and sipping overly sweet hot chocolate no matter the weather.

“You should switch to hot tea,” says Sansa as she rinses out her mug. “All you ever do is complain about it.” She’s not wrong: the heavy whipping cream is entirely too heavy, Jaime’s decided, and the extra caffeine gives him insomnia.

He keeps making them every night, anyway.

“I’ve never seen you so foolish before,” Cersei told him over breakfast this morning. He jabbed at his eggs and tuned his sister out as best he could and tried to figure out how to get out of the lease. But she’s _also_ not wrong, and Jaime knows it. This crush of his is bordering on obsession—

_“Bordering?”_

“Shut up and eat your toast, Cersei.”

—draining him, weakening him, breaking him. He’s never been this affected by someone; he never thought he would be. Yet here Jaime is, proving himself wrong, drinking too-thick coffee he doesn’t enjoy, thinking about an obviously unattainable woman who could either snap him in half or fuck him silly. Both are acceptable options at this point.

Jaime eats a scone because it’s there and he can. It tasted better post-flight, two weeks ago, when he wasn’t expecting it to land.

“I have no idea how you stomach those.”

He looks down the counter at Arya, her bare elbows smudging the wiped glass, hands framing her chin. “It’s an acquired taste.”

“And have you acquired it yet?”

Jaime stares into his cup. “It’s a work in progress,” he admits. “Maybe if I was...sturdier.”

Arya laughs, but only once. “You mean built like Madame Maxime.”

“Like _who?”_

“With an epic level constitution bonus.”

Jaime holds her gaze and takes a too-long drink of caffeinated heavy whipping cream.

“Nevermind.” Arya rolls her eyes and mutters, “Godsdamned plebe.”

His gut starts to complain about the flat white. “I’m honestly in awe of her ability to drink this,” Jaime tells her. “As far as constitution, the woman’s all muscles. All of them. Every muscle is more muscles. I think her _breasts_ might be muscles,” and Jaime absolutely _isn’t_ staring off into space. There’s simply an intriguing stone in the wall that’s caught his attention. Jaime wouldn’t daydream about getting pinned in place like a Naathian butterfly.

_Never._

“Gaston!”

“I’m sorry?”

Arya’s made her way behind the counter while Jaime was studying the masonry. “A simile you might understand, that’s all. Villain from _Lady and Se Dyni._ That animated flick Sansa made you watch last year.”

Jaime blinks, vaguely remembering. “Then who does that make me?”

“The annoying sidekick, obviously,” says Arya. “What, did you think you were going to be the hero?”

“A more substantial role would have been nice, yes.”

“You’re destined to follow, Jaime.” Arya shrugs. “Sorry to be the one to break it to you, I guess.”

The dregs of the flat white are more intolerable than usual.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t know why he sticks with the odd shifts, unless Arya’s right and Jaime’s waiting to sidecar someone else’s life for the rest of his. Sansa’s read on him was ridiculous, but preferable.

“Maybe you’ll find an atypical romance,” she had begun, “one where you start out enemies, then become friends over a common bond, and then you decide to express your feelings sexually because you’re _so certain_ that she doesn’t love you back, and _then—”_

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Sansa.”

 _“Arya.”_ It was endearing, how Sansa somehow managed to stay on the proper side of linguistics when her little sister might as well be a pirate. “We both know that enemies to friends to lovers is the best tag, no matter how vehemently you curse and deny.”

She’d pushed Sansa into the back room, mumbling something about Drarry, and Jaime still remains uninterested in learning what she’d meant.

But the idea had been a good one, and he enjoys writing for a reason; wish fulfillment is a heady brew, an undetectable creative plagiarism, an art. Jaime runs some blank tape out of the register, and jots down ideas on the paper strips for an adventure novel. The potential book has nothing to do whatsoever with a tall blonde warrior and a slightly shorter but more attractive darker blonde knight that follows her.

Arya keeps pickpocketing his snippets and pinning them to the bulletin board outside Catelyn’s office. Jaime switches to half and half and does his best not to care. It’s not like her slam poetry is any better.

“I think it’s sweet,” Sansa says, waving last night’s register tape, daintily clasped between her fingers. “Art imitates hope. It’s pure in a way you one-hundred-percent aren’t.”

“Thanks?” Sansa’s smile is what’s sweet, and Jaime hopes it stays that way. Maybe she’ll be the one in their odd little group to break out, though Jaime finds it difficult to picture her on stage as anyone but Doris Day.

He’s especially sullen after that, enough so that Sansa makes him clock out and go home, leaving her to close up alone. His flat white is decent company as Jaime waits unseen outside the door to make sure Sansa makes it to her car; anyone could see her through the plate glass, and Gods only know what monsters lurk around here. Eventually, though, the coffee’s gone, and Jaime’s left holding an empty cup and a phone full of Twitter, and thus full of fucking neo-wights, and thus not terribly entertaining.

“We meet again, shortsword.”

Jaime startles—he can’t believe he let his guard down so fully. “And here I thought I'd finally run you off,” he says.

“You’ll have to try a damn sight harder.” Flat White has crossed into the glow of the one working light on the other side of the street, and Jaime has the uncanny feeling of having been deposited into a film noir. She’s tall, dark, and approaching handsome: what even _is_ his life at this point? “You always let your maiden fair do all the work?”

“Only when the lady insists.”

She scoffs. “Typical man.”

“Sansa practically chased me out with a broom.”

“A fedora-less gentleman standing watch, then?” asks Flat White.

“Something like that.” Jaime risks a smile. “I wouldn't look very intimidating in a fedora.”

“You don’t cut an especially imposing figure, regardless.” He can hear her heels click against the cobblestone road. Flat White, taller still, calves defined by the angle of her legs—no, no, Jaime can’t get an erection. There’s no way he can hide it behind an empty disposable cup.

“Yeah, well…” Jaime feigns nonchalance, returning his eyes to his phone, thumbnail wearing a groove into his phone with each swipe. “We weren’t all of us born giants, now were we?”

The clicking stops; she’s mere feet in front of him now. “At least I wasn’t born an asshole,” she finally says.

“That’s true. You’d make for a large one.”

“I imagine you stay unfortunately empty.”

Jaime chokes on the coffee he’s already swallowed, can’t help but look up at her while he tries to start breathing again. Flat White has her hair combed back, parted on the side, high forehead on display, powerful and almost beautiful beneath the yellow light. With her black leather jacket and her tight jeans, Jaime thinks they’ve changed genres, from detective film to fucking _West Side Story,_ and he still has no idea which character he’s playing, only that they’re each other’s attractive adversary. But the jacket is partially unbuttoned, and Jaime doesn’t see a shirt underneath, and he immediately stops wondering about the setting.

“Well?” she asks. “Do you?”

“Depends on the dick I’m conversing with,” and Jaime feels powerful when Flat White blinks, surprised, if only for a moment. “In this case?”

“Yes?”

Jaime unlocks his screen, heart pounding in his chest as he pretends to be busy again. “Hard for a cunt to thrust.”

She’s sputtering laughter as she jostles him and pushes her way inside. Flat White is the only customer, and Jaime feels like she comes back out within a span of several breaths, though that could be because his breathing still hasn’t returned to a normal rate. Flat White’s holding her flat white, walking out and right past him, like they hadn’t spoken, at all.

“What’s your name?” He can’t believe it’s the first time he’s ever directly asked her. “I’m Jaime.”

Flat White’s boots stop again—Jaime has no idea how she manages to walk the thin heels through all the gaps in the stones without getting stuck. “I already knew your name from your tag.”

“And might I know yours?”

“You might.”

Jaime sighs. “I’d like to know who I’m fighting with, is all.”

“I’m sure you would.” Turning her head to look back at him, she adds, “And you’ve yet to see me fight, little man,” and then she’s lost to the other side of the street once more.

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe you _still_ don’t know her name.”

Jaime glares at Cersei across the table. “It’s a game.”

“Is it?” She’s reading the paper, hasn’t looked at him once since he lumbered into the kitchen and sat down. As far as Jaime knows, his family keeps the paper in business; no one even reads them at Winterfell.

“A battle of words. She called me an asshole,” explains Jaime. “Also a little man.”

“Both are accurate.” Cersei picks up her coffee, not looking at it, either. “And your advance?”

“I called her a dick and a cunt.”

“Well, I see you’ve covered all the genitalia without even having touched. I can’t decide whether that’s impressive or just sad.” She sips from the cup; even Cersei’s _drinking_ is judgmental. “Though I'm guessing somewhere in between the two—she seems more of a rough-and-tumble lay than a lady.”

“If she were a lady,” says Jaime, “we'd have warmed my bed at least once already.”

“Hence your difficulty,” Cersei replies. “You're easy to flirt with, but just as easily infatuated with powerful women.”

“Ah, and _here_ it is: my twin sister’s monthly appeal for me to rejoin the family business.”

She sighs, long-suffering though she never has been, not even for a short time. “You still owe Father a debt. Besides, there are plenty of domineering women in the business world.”

“I know that,” snaps Jaime. He grabs a piece of toast off her plate, briefly considers crumbling it into pieces to spite her. “I traveled that world long enough to know they were the wrong kind of women in the wrong kind of job.” _And I paid enough of that debt,_ goes unsaid.

“You were so good at strategizing, Jamie.” It’s like he hasn’t said a word. “There’s going to be a corporate-level position opening—if the figures are right, we’ll be acquiring Targaryen Holdings within the month.”

“Climbing the ladder was always your dream, not mine.” Jaime runs all his fingers through his hair; maybe he’ll cut it today, just to give her some hope of his redemption. Not to impress Flat White, of course.

“No, you’d much rather commune with the working class and pretend you’re writing the next great novel of Westeros.”

He shoves half the piece of toast in his mouth and starts wondering about the lease again, though, in spite of the company, it’s extremely hard to beat free rent.

 

* * *

 

Flat White doesn’t come in either that day or the next. It’s alright with Jaime, though; it gives the girls time to get over his random encounter, which Arya keeps telling him he rolled a one on his charisma check, and he has no fucking clue what she’s talking about. Nothing new there.

Sansa, predictably, peppers Jaime with questions he couldn’t possibly have answers for. She asks him if he’s going to ask Flat White out on a date, and if he does, where would he take her. The whole “love at first sight” shit Sansa keeps spouting is going to give Jaime hives, and her postulating on which of them would be on top would be mortifying if he wasn’t already wondering the same thing.

“I think it’s for the best that Jaime secure her name before you map out their sex life, Sansa,” Catelyn says to her daughter on one of the rare occasions she comes out front. “You ought to be encouraging him to use his brass balls instead of his thick skull.”

 _Gods,_ Jaime loves his boss.

But Catelyn has a point, which means that Cersei _had_ a point, and Jaime feels somewhat emasculated regardless of his brass balls, and is solidly angry about that. He lets the anger simmer, though, and it grows, not like a fire but like the stench from food burning in the eye of a stove. There’s no vent for it, nothing to temper it with, nowhere for it to curl but up and out to tickle the smoke detector.

Five more days of steam. Eight days of no tall, dark, becoming progressively more handsome woman. Jaime’s this close to clocking out of his intensely boring Sixth Day shift when in comes a wave of college-age assholes.

“Prospectives,” Arya tells him disdainfully. “Bright-eyed and goal-oriented and utterly, utterly screwed.”

Whatever they are, Jaime hates them, because it’s fifty-something teenagers in various stages of vocal fry and not a one of them over six feet tall. He’s good at concealing it, of course, after years of practice with his family, but between the noise and the constant queries for drinks they don’t have and his continued quiet rage over being so _inept_ with women that aren’t party pick-ups and men who grunt over reciprocal blowjobs in bars—

“Flat white,” she says, and Jaime doesn’t even let her finish.

“Sub heavy whipping cream and two extra ristretto shots.” He manages to quirk his lips, because Jaime doesn’t feel like lying to her with his face, not like he has to the rest of the room. “Welcome back, stranger.”

“Did someone die?”

That’s...not the reaction he was expecting. “Were they supposed to?” Jaime asks, scribbling on the side of her cup in what he hopes is Common.

“You aren’t your usual caustic self. Also you haven’t stared at me once.”

“Give it time; there’s still several hours too many left in the day.”

Flat White makes a little breathless noise that sounds like a placeholder for laughter. “You’re approaching pleasant when you’re pissed off.”

“How do you know I’m pissed off?”

Her finger beneath his chin is surprising enough that he jumps, and she shushes him so quietly that Jaime knows he’s the only one that’s heard. Letting her lift his head is more natural than he thought it would be—he can’t believe how easily he’s fallen into her hands. Jaime would be embarrassed if he could remember how feelings and thoughts worked.

“Your haircut suits you.”

Jaime swallows, briefly wondering if Flat White will follow the bob of his Adam’s apple with the same strong fingertip. “Thank you.” Hopefully she reads lips, because Jaime isn’t sure his voice has checked back in yet or not.

“Good call keeping the beard.”

“Since it accentuates my dastardly good looks?”

“Since it hides your immense ugliness. Anyway, _go home,”_ she tells him. “Punch the ever-living shit out of—”

“A pillow?”

Flat White scowls. “You’re a terrible listener, aren’t you?”

“Parts of me are definitely listening right now, I assure you.”

A sigh, and Flat White moves out of Jaime’s personal space. “Beat your least-favorite piece of furniture to death. You’ll feel better.”

By the time _Westerosi Gods_ comes on, Cersei’s beloved armchair lies scattered in pieces across the living room. Jaime does feel better, for now. Probably not so much once Cersei comes back from her business trip, though he could always say Tyrion broke in and smashed her throne to bits while he was drunk. That’s plausible enough.

Flat White comes in the next day at the same time. She takes one look at Jaime’s poorly-bandaged knuckles and grins.

He still doesn’t know her name, but it’s starting to matter less.

 

* * *

 

“Why haven’t you written your phone number on the side of her cup?”

“Shit, Sansa, I’m not _desperate.”_

 

* * *

 

Jaime’s knuckles are completely healed and Cersei’s chair replaced by the time Flat White returns. It’s another busy Sixth Day; from the way Arya’s scowling at the espresso machine, she’s plotting the assassination of the entirety of the university’s recruitment office. Honestly, Jaime’s prepared to help her at this point, sick of all the preppy types crowding around the counter and drawing dicks on the chalkboard wall and stealing all of the cardboard sleeves.

“I’d ask how you are this afternoon,” says Flat White, “but I had to elbow my way in, so I’m going to guess terrible.”

“Considering I’m slowly beginning to agree with my father about the up-and-coming generation?”

Flat White winces. “Even worse than I thought.”

“I’m going to kill everyone,” Arya says over her shoulder.

Sansa’s running drinks to the counter—and thank _all_ of the gods that Podrick was able to come in and help; he’s the fastest out of the entire staff—calling out names for coffee and tea orders for what Jaime thinks is the first time in Winterfell’s history. “She’ll do it, too,” she confirms between a Michelle and a Trey.

“And my coworkers are really lifting my spirits.” Jaime rolls his eyes, and they wind up meeting Flat White’s. He thinks he might be stuck.

“Poor baby.”

“I would ask if I might have your name,” says Jaime, “but I’m positive you’ll say something like ‘name’—

“You stole that from me, you fucking traitor!”

Flat White smiles. “I like her.”

“I’m just going to use the nickname I’ve given you.”

It doesn’t seem to faze her in the slightest. “Do your worst,” she tells him.

Jaime smirks, and forgets to put her exact change into the cash register, too busy writing her name and order on the cup. Sansa pulls him out of the way, because he’s completely ignoring the other customers; she mistakenly shoves the money into the tip jar, but Jaime’s not about to correct her. He’s too busy enjoying Arya’s open-mouthed reaction to what he’s written on the cup.

“Are you sure about this?” she asks. “Because I know exactly what you mean by this.”

“What could go wrong?” He grabs up and calls out the next three drinks. There’s a godsdamned _Bryce._ The next batch from Podrick includes a Chad and a Travis, and Jaime honestly doesn’t even remember writing any of these names on the cups. For all he knows, he just took a series of wild guesses.

Seven more drinks, and Podrick hands Jaime the one he’s been waiting for. “Don’t die,” he says, but Jaime grins.

“A flat white for a flat and white!” shouts Jaime.

Winterfell goes dead silent. Beyond, really—the dead silence has dug out of its grave to wreak havoc on birdsong.

Flat White stares at him from the other side of the shop, mouth open.

“Because you are and you are.” This is the most fun Jaime’s had in days.

The crowd parts for her—and what a wonderful time for Jaime to see the carrying case for a single baseball bat slung over he shoulder. Jaime swears there isn’t that great of a height difference between them, but Flat White is currently about eleven feet tall, towering over him. There’s a small gnome in his brain screaming at him to beg forgiveness, and Jaime hopes it shuts up soon.

“Would you care to try again?” she asks. There’s no emotion on her face whatsoever.

Jaime’s legs are rapidly turning to jelly. “I’m not typically in the habit of repeating myself.”

For a moment, it looks like she’s going to grab him by the front of his apron and pull him across the counter. Maybe the brain gnome was onto something. Not that Jaime would mind all that much; he can hold his own in a fight, and he’s not afraid to go toe-to-toe with Flat White.

But then her face lights up, like she’s fucking happy to be insulted, or else, “All my life, I’ve been teased and bullied for my appearance, and all my life, I’ve been knocking those same idiots—assholes like you—into the dust.”

“How fortunate Sansa swept this morning.” He cocks his head and adds, “Flat and white.”

“Because I am.”

“Because you are.”

Flat White shakes her head, _tsks_ him like he’s an idiot child caught in a lie about a lie. “I should expect nothing less from a Lannister,” she says, voice as loud as Jaime’s was, not that it’s necessary in the quiet. “Lannister Financial, a lender and collector of debts. I suppose you uphold your bargains, as well?”

“I can only assume.”

“Then I do hope you don’t sleep around, Jaime. I’d hate to see how much you owe.” She takes her flat white from his hand, tips her head at him, and the snickering teenagers give her room.

“I swear, Jaime,” says Anya, “by the old gods and the new: if you don’t ask her out, _I will.”_

Jaime only grunts in response, because Flat White was apparently interested enough to look him up.

And he still has no idea who she is.

 

* * *

 

They don't have much opportunity to speak beyond that for a couple weeks, because midterms are coming, so the entire campus is naturally freaking out and doing everything short of funneling caffeine intravenously. There are furtive glances, though, barely-maintained poker faces and emotive eyebrows. Jaime does manage an occasional jab at her through scribbles on her coffee cups—

_I haven’t decided if you’re uglier during the day or at night._

—to which she answers back on pieces of scrap paper slipped to him with her exact change at the cash register—

_At least I’m not ugly in any light._

Flat White is the highlight of his shift, even if she does always manage to one-up him. Cersei’s right about him (again, _ugh);_ Jaime gets a thrill out of powerful women.

The lack of true conversation affords him the opportunity to catalogue her outfits, which are surprisingly repetitive in number. When she strolls in before closing, Flat White always has on the leather jacket and tight jeans combo, sometimes bare-chested, sometimes with a hint of what seems to be either a sports bra or a tight tank. Jaime shamefully rubs one out in the bathroom after closing, thinking of what her flat tits might look like constricted further under that sheer material, nipples peaked in the chill fall air, or else by his fingers and mouth, which would be far preferable.

Sansa calls him a pervert when he emerges from the restroom; Podrick simply seems confused.

During the daytime, Flat White’s outfit varies between business casual or too-small shorts and a loose tee. Jaime tries not to think of her wearing his t-shirts. He always fails miserably.

Midterms come and fall break tiptoes in behind it, thank the gods. He’s anticipating getting to talk to her again now that business has slowed down to a trickle in the afternoons and evenings.

Jaime didn’t anticipate, would have _never_ anticipated, Flat White’s appearance today.

She’s wearing big white-rimmed sunglasses and made up like a starlet from the fifties, like Marilyn fucking Monroe, all blonde curls and red lips. There’s no makeup that can hide the shiner peeking out from behind the frames, though, nothing short of Los Angeles glam of Broadway concealer. It’s a dark purple from still-pooled blood, a terrible accessory that has to be fresh from last night. Seeing the bruise sparks a primal kind of heat in Jaime’s belly, makes him yearn to avenge a woman who couldn’t possibly need assistance breaking anybody’s skull. Fuck knows _he_ hadn’t.

Still. “Who do I need to kill?” he asks, twisting the towel in his hands.

Flat White tilts her head, taken aback. Either that, or insulted—Jaime still hasn’t figured out how to read her. “That’s going to be a long list,” she says. “Where do you want me to start? Perhaps you could narrow down the field?”

“Your eye.”

“I’d rather keep both of them if it’s all the same to you. My appendix is a much better candidate for homicide.”

He lets the towel flop onto the counter, irritated. “The bruise,” clarifies Jaime. “Your godsdamned black eye, wench. How did you get it?”

“Well obviously I was punched.” Flat White suddenly grins. “Why, Jaime. Do you have an overwhelming urge to protect my honor?” When he doesn’t reply, she adds, “Good sir, I am _shocked.”_

“I—” There’s not really a reason to continue or explain himself; honestly, Jaime’s just embarrassed now, all of his righteous anger drained away in the face of her flippancy. But he explains, anyway. “I thought maybe you were in danger.”

“Do I look like someone who can’t handle herself in battle?”

“That wasn’t—I wasn’t trying to offend you for once.” Jaime snatches the towel back up, turning back to needlessly polish the espresso machine. “We all need help on occasion. It doesn’t make us weak.”

There’s an awful silence, long enough to drag Jaime back into the past. “Sounds like the voice of experience.” He’s never heard Flat White’s tone go anywhere near soft; it’s a soothing balm, bandages his memories.

“I only stayed in the family business as long as necessary,” and that’s enough truth from him for the day as far as Jaime’s concerned.

He keeps cleaning the espresso machine until it’s officially been gone over twice, then starts through the rote motions of drawing her absurd number of ristretto shots. “Boxing,” says Flat White unprompted.

“What about it?”

“That’s how I got the black eye. I box. It’s why I ask for so much caffeine.”

Jaime scowls at her over his shoulder. “Why, because you need a chemical that can simulate landing on your ass at the end of the day?”

“Gods.” Flat White sounds annoyed, but she’s chuckling. “I can’t decide if you’re more of an idiot or a shithead.”

“My friends call me Shidiot, so I suppose that’s up for interpretation.” Before Flat White has a chance to reply, Jaime asks, “Need the caffeine to knock other people on _their_ asses, then?”

“Sometimes training runs into competing, then runs into my actual job that pays the bills.”

“Which is?”

“Copy editing.” A pause. “It’s horrible.”

Jaime hands over her flat white, then leans on his elbows on the glass display case. He can wipe that down a second time, too. “What about the bat?”

She smirks; it’s terrifying; Jaime loves it. “Just because I box doesn’t mean I play fair on the walk home.” Flat White starts digging into her tote; as per always, she pulls out exact change, then puts it down on the counter.

Taking the opportunity, he puts his hand over hers, mouth instantly going dry. “Coffee’s on me this time,” Jaime tells her. “Because my name is Shidiot.”

“I don’t usually allow this kind of thing,” Flat White admits quietly, “but for you, I’ll make an exception. Just this once.”

“Of course. It would be terribly ungentlemanly of me to presume you’d let me a second time.”

“You’re no gentleman, Jaime Lannister.”

He smiles, squeezes her hand once before letting her pull away. “And you, miss, are no lady.”

 

* * *

 

“She didn’t give you her name?”

“No.”

“And you didn’t think to _ask?”_

“Fuck you, Arya.”

 

* * *

 

November. North Remembrance break. Another year of pretending he has plans out-of-Landing so as to avoid his father, hiding out at the Starks clear through the following Second Day when the university resumes classes.

Jaime stays at Winterfell the night before, again as he does each year. Catelyn accepts his excuse of protecting the shop during the parade, though they both know Jaime’s full of shit and simply wants somewhere to get drunk. Feast days are never easy for him.

Sometimes, he pretends that this is the year he’ll be brave and open Winterfell up for business the day after, that he’ll come out of his self-made exile and risk his siblings discovering his ruse. Jaime can’t seem to not be full of shit about anything to do with North Remembrance, or Second Godsday, or the Turn of the Year, or First Godsday, or all occasions when his father would be obligated to visit his children beyond seeing them in meetings. Even Tyrion manages to find his way home for feast days, and their father dislikes him most of all.

Family is too, too complicated. Jaime doesn’t know what he’d do without the Starks. Probably drink himself into more of a stupor than he already does.

Planning went poorly this year, as in it didn’t happen. Flat White came in at the last minute for the second time that day, and Jaime got distracted in the bathroom after she left, missing his opportunity to visit a spirits store, having missed his opportunity the night prior due to breaking Cersei’s new favorite chair with his fists. There’s only cheap booze at the nearby convenience mart, but that’ll have to do, and he may have decided to drink half of the bottle on the way back to Winterfell.

There’s a cot in the back room—Podrick “discreetly” set it up after he clocked out, gods bless him. Jaime makes it behind the counter before he chooses to give up and sit in the floor. Being three-quarters of his way through the vodka might have something to do with it, and that’s one trait he can thank his father for: the Lannister constitution.

Across the room, in direct line of sight, Flat White’s baseball bat sits propped up in the corner. She must have left it this morning and not noticed. Jaime should’ve noticed—he notices every-fucking-thing else about her.

His brain cells rub themselves together. The semi-finals for the local boxing circuit are tonight.

_Fuck._

It makes no sense, Jaime seizing the bat and leaving the shop again, but he has to try to find her. Jaime concentrates, hoping the cold air will knock his synapses into full gear. She’d invited him to come watch tonight, and if he’d only fucking picked that over getting wasted. More cowardice—he’d been so sure of popping wood when she kicked ass, and Jaime still hadn’t summoned the courage to ask for her name, also sure that Flat White was waiting for him to.

But that means that he knows where the match is being held. It’s possible that she’s still there. Flat White has to live around here, as well; he can’t think of another reason for her to stop by some nights, considering she walks home.

Jaime shoulders the case and starts weaving his way toward the arena, fully prepared to knock out a cop if he gets stopped for public intoxication. Then again, if Tyrion can get away with making _his_ way home, then Jaime can fucking make it to Flat White.

A seven block into his walk, Jaime experiences Lannister luck for the very first time. He thinks. It’s a toss-up, really, but there are voices in the alley up ahead, and Jaime swears one of them sounds like her. No reason not to down the last of the bottle for liquid courage.

He looks carefully around the corner.

Sure enough, there’s Flat White, except she’s strong-armed against the brick wall of the pawn shop by a sheer _mountain_ of a man, and there’s a shiny glint at her throat that’s probably a knife, and there’s two other assholes in the alley, and oh fuck, Jaime’s going to have to _piss her off by saving her._

Shining knight in shitting armor. Something like that.

He’s got a bat and an empty bottle of vodka. If necessary, there’s a multitool on his keychain that Sansa gave him for Second Godsday. The owner of the convenience mart on the other side of the alley doesn’t celebrate North Remembrance, which means the little old near-sighted man’s still open for business, which means Jaime can walk through with a winning smile and out the back door, creep up on the assholes, and give Flat White the chance to save herself.

Perfect. Possibly the best plan Jaime’s ever had in his entire life.

He crosses the street and walks past the alley; crosses the street again and walks into the store.

“Jaime!”

Winning smile activated. “Aemon! Just passing through.”

Smile returned. “On your way, then.”

Connecting alley. So far, so good.

Baseball bat from bag; deep breath; bottle in his left hand, and bat in his right.

Okay.

Jaime’s got this.

Creeping.

_Creeeeeeeeping._

Side-step.

 _Almost_ there.

The vodka bottle cracks the first man in the back of his skull, and he goes down immediately. Jaime dodges Asshole Two, lunging and slamming the bottle into the back of his knee. Dropping the bottle, Jaime takes the bat in both hands, pops up, and swings as hard as he can in the side of his head.

Blood fucking _everywhere,_ and Jaime may have just killed a man for the second time. He’s not going to feel bad about it this go around.

There’s a sickening snap across the alley. Jaime can’t help himself, looking up to see Flat White’s knee in her assaulter’s groin, his switchblade falling to the ground as she breaks his arm, having already broken his left. It’s beautiful, and glorious, and Jaime is officially in love.

Hands on his right arm.

Another snap, this one louder, because it’s right next to him. Jaime hears the bat drop against the pavement. It’s not a big deal, however, because he knees Asshole One in his groin; Flat White’s a strategic genius. She’s also kicking the man at the base of his spine, which helps. He goes down, and she smashes her foot into his breastbone, and it’s over.

“Your arm’s broken,” says Flat White, both she and Jaime panting.

He glances down at his arm. “Oh,” Jaime replies. “So it is.”

“We should call an ambulance.”

“I think I murdered someone. Again.”

Flat White shakes her head—he knows because staring at the bone poking through his henley was a phenomenally bad idea. “Self-defense. And defense of a second person which…” Her eyes are wet. “I owe you a debt. A fucking enormous debt.”

Jaime’s staggering backwards, but a wall, thankfully, decides to catch him. “Tell me your name.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Immensely.” He’s sliding down, and now _she’s_ catching him, which is nice. “I think I should be in pain.”

Flat White is smiling at him; it’s one of those incredulous ones, the sort he’s not accustomed to receiving. “You’re probably in shock.”

“And also drunk.”

“That, too, but I need your phone, Jaime.” She’s taken off her white undershirt now, starts trying to wrap it around his arm

“I take everything back,” says Jaime, “you have _amazing_ tits.”

“Oh my—nevermind. Blood loss trumps misogyny.” There’s a hint of worry in her voice that makes Jaime think he should be panicking. “I’ve got to call for help.”

“Uh-uh.” Jaime shakes his head. That was also a bad idea. “Name first.”

“Good fucking gods, it’s Brienne Tarth, you absolute imbecile.”

“Nice to meet you, Brienne,” he says. “I’d shake your hand, but I can’t feel my favorite arm.”

_“Phone.”_

“Grab my ass,” and Jaime promptly passes out.

 

* * *

 

Life is hazy for an unknown amount of time. Jaime remembers being in the ambulance, because they go over a pothole and he screams. Brienne sounds like she’s arguing with a paramedic, and then he hears his last name get dropped.

He may immediately tell her he loves her, but it sounds an awful lot like more shouting. He blacks out again.

 

* * *

 

There’s more strangled screeching, and Jaime is not fond of waking up like this. Someone quickly tells another person to increase something that sounds medical. He agrees with them, loudly, words slurring.

His left hand is being tightly squeezed. Jaime rolls his eyes over toward whoever it is. He tells the person they’re pretty, and that he’s going to write a book about how pretty they are, and then Jaime hears Brienne laughing as he blessedly passes back out.

 

* * *

 

Jaime blinks into reality, but there’s no shouting, so he must be doing better. Either that, or the hospital has him on excellent drugs. He doesn’t feel like his bones were broken through his skin, nor does he feel hungover, and these are both equally excellent developments.

“Welcome back.”

Brienne sounds tired; that may be the mental understatement of the century, but Jaime doesn’t care to look it up. He does look at Brienne, though; given the shadows under her eyes. The hospital-issue tee she’s wearing only adds to the appearance of utter exhaustion.

“How did your fight go?” he asks, then clarifies, “The other one, I mean. The first one.”

“Won,” says Brienne. She pushes Jaime’s hair out of his face; the brush of her skin against his is intoxicating, and Jaime knows that’s not the drugs. Unless he’s perpetually high and never knew, of course. High on life, or maybe love, and whatever they’re pumping into his IV is apparently _phenomenal_ if it’s turning him into a self-help promotional poster.

Jaime lets his eyes slip closed again, then remembers he should probably reply. “Atta girl.”

“Which means I’m going to have to leave my vigil here soon.” Brienne’s still fiddling with his hair. “I’m probably going to quietly freak out about all of this later.”

Jaime nods, finally opening his eyes again in order to actually _find_ her hand. “Makes sense. You were magnificent last night, though, for what it’s worth.” He tries not to wince, and not because they’ve laced their fingers together as much as possible, arms lowering—she’s helping him go slowly; fuck, but he’s tired. “Can’t do much against three giants with blades.”

“I keep telling myself that.” She’s almost smiling. “I’m as good at listening to me as you are.”

“Wish I’d gone to see you.”

“I’m glad you didn’t. We’d _both_ have gotten jumped.”

And he hadn’t thought about it like that.

“Speaking of,” she continues, “your father got us both out of investigation and possible charges.”

Jaime can’t help but groan; he’s grateful, but, “Not fucking again.”

“You keep saying ‘again.’”

“Can we talk about it later?”

Brienne hums, like she’s considering it. “Nope. Now’s good for me while you can’t censor yourself.”

“Asshole.”

“We’ve had this dance before.”

There’s no getting out of it, Jaime knows. “Prep school,” he begins. “I was on the wrestling team, and there was this...this crazy fuck who made captain. He was good, absolutely deserved the spot, but the freshman hazing was out of control. And I had the spot right under him—oh gods, phrasing. It’s understood that you stand with your captain’s position.”

“More phrasing.”

Jaime chuckles, but his heart isn’t in it. Glancing at Brienne, it’s obvious she can tell. “But you don’t betray your captain. These kids, though, I couldn’t handle it, the outright _violence,_ how the coaches just didn’t care because it got results. And it kept escalating. Worse and worse. I went into the locker room one night and Aerys…” It’s harder to breathe; Jaime swears he can smell the mats, the sweat.

“You can stop if you want,” says Brienne, but Jaime knows he can’t.

“I didn’t know what he was going to do to the kid, and I snapped. Knocked him to the ground and started punching and never stopped. He was a pulp when the coaches dragged me off of him.” Jaime swallows, his throat scratchier than it had been when he started. “They called the cops. Had me arrested. If my father hadn’t intervened and pulled his political weight and every string available to him, I’d either be in prison right now or dead.”

He risks glancing at Brienne again; there’s no disgust in her eyes, no pity, either. Simple understanding. Acceptance. “Last night was the first time you’ve fought since then, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“It showed.”

Jaime scoffs, and almost smiles. “I was drunk!”

Brienne rolls her eyes. “You were rusty.”

“I hate you.”

“That’s not precisely what you said in the ambulance.”

The ceiling tiles really are stupendous in this room. “In my defense,” Jaime begins slowly, “I only realized it last night when you were breaking a man into bits, so it doesn’t matter that I was drunk the first time I said it.”

He looks back over at her in time to catch her raised eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“A man can hope.”

Brienne smiles, but she’s smug. “You’ll have to be sober the next time if you want me to consider the truth of it. Although I did tell the paramedics we were engaged.”

Jaime is glad he hadn’t asked Brienne for some water, because he’d probably have just spit it all over her. “You did _what?”_

“Engaged. Us. Told them. Seriously, Jaime, you might want to have your hearing checked. Anyway, I lied so they’d let me ride along with you in the ambulance,” she explains, “and besides, you confessed your love to me in front of them.”

He tries to run his right hand through his hair with little success. “It’s not even been twenty-four hours since I learned your name, Brienne.”

“That’s hardly my fault.”

“No, it’s _entirely_ your fault.”

Brienne is snickering; Jaime would enjoy the sound in any other situation, he’s sure. “And here I thought you were in love with me.”

“I was drunk!”

“That didn’t matter two minutes ago.”

She’s right, of course. The women in Jaime’s life always manage to be right. “So it’s a charade, yes?”

“Not so much.” Brienne folds her arms on the bed rail—her face is so close to Jaime’s that it would hardly take moving at all to kiss—

“What do you mean?”

She lays the side of her face on her arms; Jaime’s missed his meet-lip opportunity. “Someone told your father.”

“Oh.” It’s a damn good thing that no one’s currently checking his blood pressure.

“He congratulated me when he dropped by earlier to let me know we were off the hook.”

“Oh no.”

“And he asked where my ring was.”

Jaime tries to cover his face with his hands and succeeds in bashing his nose with his cast, and Brienne’s laughing at him, his fiancee is laugh— “Old gods and the _new, no.”_ If he doesn’t focus on something, _anything_ else, Jaime’s going to hyperventilate. “He’s going to make me quit Winterfell and go to work for him again. Especially now that I’m going to have a wife to provi—oh no.”

“Is the prospect of marrying me really that terrible?” asks Brienne, bopping him on the nose with a fingertip.

“The prospect of marrying at all is...let’s go with daunting. Very likely, marriage is terrible for creative endeavors,” he continues. “Unadvisedly stressful. Expensive. And it’s a bit _soon,_ don’t you think?”

She waves her hand dismissively. “So we have a long engagement. If we wind up being unable to stand each other, we break it off. Easy. But for now,” she says, ruffling Jaime’s hair as she stands up, “I have to go.”

“So devoted,” says Jaime. Playing the role of the beleaguered husband probably wouldn’t be so different than how he already reacted to her. He tries not to seriously consider it. “You’ll be wonderful at wifery.”

“I’m hardly leaving you to your own devices,” Brienne tells him, putting on her coat. “Your sister and Arya are outside arguing about which of them is sitting with you first.”

Jaime hates being repetitive, but, “Oh no.” His brain is beginning to feel scrambled—“What are they both doing here?”

Brienne side-eyes him. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten that you’re in the hospital hooked up to morphine and a bag of blood?”

His eyes swivel up to the IV tree. “Huh,” he says smartly. “Would you look at that.”

“Are you always this oblivious to the world around you?”

“It’s a gift.” Jaime lets himself sink further back into the pillow. “Seriously, why is everyone here?”

Her fingers are on either side of his jaw again, turning his face to hers, looming over him. For a second, Jaime thinks Brienne is about to tell him to wreck more furniture. Instead, she asks, “Have you ever stopped to consider that people actually care for you beyond what you have to offer them?” Brienne’s gaze is intense and hard to hold, too much emotion and no temperance whatsoever.

Jaime doesn’t know how to answer. He just keeps staring up at her, adrift.

She says his name, the barest, sweetest whisper, and then Brienne’s hand is on the back of Jaime’s head, and she’s kissing him. It’s not tentative, not ladylike or genteel, but it isn’t impersonal and perfunctory, either, not given because it’s expected. He can still breathe—it isn’t cliche like he thought a meaningful kiss was supposed to be. Jaime doesn’t feel complete now; he feels _bereft,_ that it’s taken him so long to have a mouth interested in taking his and never letting go.

When Brienne pulls away, Jaime wants to complain, especially because she heads straight for the door, curtain rings rattling as she whips through it. But he hears the door lock, and then Brienne comes back—Jaime wonders if the curtain rod will survive her haste—shedding her leather jacket, letting it fall to the floor. There’s no hesitation, no checking to make sure all of the tubing is out of the way, only Brienne, tall and powerful, crawling onto the bed and up his body, straddling Jaime’s hips.

Jaime’s still breathing. He’s not going to question his lungs, because the rest of his body is frozen stiff. His cock is hard to the point of pain, the sheet obscenely tented. It’s a minor miracle that he can get it up, at all, considering everything that’s being pumped into his body.

“Have you come to conquer, my lady?”

“No.” Her hair doesn’t move with her head, still sweat-slick from two battles. “I come to claim.”

“Because I’ve already been captured?”

Brienne licks her lips, tracing his bottom lip with her thumb. Jaime is going to die in this bed. “You were snared months ago,” she says.

He can’t close his mouth; it’s hers now. Letting his tongue dart out in search of her skin only makes her pull away, so Jaime just lays still. Eventually, Brienne takes his uninjured hand, presses his clumsy, inadequate fingers to the side of her face. She’s achingly close; the heat of her body over his as she lowers herself to cover him burns him through the sheet and his thin hospital gown.

“You’re beautiful,” whispers Jaime, combing his hand up into her hair. It’s as stiff and greased as he anticipated. Maybe she’ll let him wash it, when he has both arms at his command, if he asks her nicely. “Really,” because they’ve needled at each other for so long; Jaime’s lied to both her and himself, and he doesn’t want to continue right now. “So, so fucking beautiful.”

“Am I?” she murmurs before kissing up the side of his jaw.

“A goddess. Golden and radiant and deadly.”

Brienne hums, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. Hers are too blue. They’re going to swallow him. “I don’t think anyone’s said that to me before.”

“Remind me to say it more often.” Jaime’s breath stutters. This isn’t right, he isn’t this sentimental, he’s, “Never wanted to worship anyone before.”

“But you’d worship me?” He’s comforted by Brienne’s same halting breath. The moment is too heavy; they’re in stasis and freefall all at once.

 _“Gods,_ yes.” Jaime can’t stand it, craves at least a modicum of agency. He grips Brienne’s hair tightly, and she gasps. “I’m not drunk now.”

“You’re on drugs.” Brienne sounds like she’s breaking.

“I don’t care.”

 _“You love me,”_ and she’s broken. Still, Brienne fights against Jaime’s insistent tugging, trying to bring their lips back together.

“Yes, I do.” Their lips brush as she starts to give in. “I love you, Brienne. I’ll tell you until you believe me, for as long as it takes, again and again, because I love you. I love you. I lov—”

“Shut up,” and she shuts him up, mouths sealed together. Jaime’s dominant warrior returns to him; he’s happy to give Brienne the reins, to concede the fight, groaning into her mouth, encouraging her to take anything. Everything.

She does.

Jaime cants his hips to meet her as she grinds against him. Brienne pants into his mouth, quiet and warm, practically riding his cock through the layers that separate them.

“I want to be used by you.” The pitch of Jaime’s voice is embarrassingly pathetic, but he doesn’t care. “I think about it constantly, excuse myself at work because I’m too wound up just from looking at you.” He closes his eyes; there’s too much sensory input to keep them open. “My mouth. I want to put my mouth all over you, let you guide it exactly where you need it, taste along every curve and muscle. Fuck you with my tongue—Brienne, _Brienne.”_

She’s laughing, nose to nose. “Do you know what I do after every match, Jaime?” He can’t answer, too busy biting his lip to keep from moaning every time she rocks against him, orgasm just out of reach. “I’m so rushed and high on adrenaline. After a good fight,” she begins, moving her lips to Jaime’s ear, “whether I win or not, I’m aroused as fuck. Blood pumping—I feel _alive._ I get home as fast as fucking possible, Jaime, and I run to the shower.”

Brienne licks the shell of his ear; Jaime doesn’t know whether or not it’s on purpose or simply incidental from the closeness of her mouth. “Sometimes I don’t even wait to undress, go on and get under the water before taking off my pants, getting on my knees, and riding my fingers until I come chanting your name.”

Jaime’s never made such a series of helpless sounds. “My name—”

“I shout it, listen to it echo against the shower walls.” Brienne growls, begins to bite and suck her way down the side of his neck, the press of her cunt against him, punishingly slow, enough to make Jaime want to beg. Maybe he does, because she asks, “You want to come, don’t you?”

_“Please.”_

Another snap of her teeth, dragging against Jaime’s skin. “Me first.”

He hopes it’s the invitation it sounds like, because Jaime immediately grabs her thigh with his left hand, wraps his broken arm around her waist, and begins to thrust up against her as fast as he fucking can. The hospital bed is creaking, and Jaime’s IV lines are tugging against his skin in time with his hips. Brienne is so close, cursing into his hair, so Jaime welcomes the pain, lets it fuel him. He can ask for more drugs, but he can only have this moment once.

When she comes, Brienne latches onto his scalp so hard that Jaime’s convinced she’s going to rip part of it off. When _he_ comes, Jaime legitimately bites through his lip, and he never thought he was into blood and sex and violence rolled all together, but he really, _really_ fucking is.

They lie there in the eye of the hurricane, because there’s noise all around them, the world rushing back in. Knocking at the door; the incessant squall of the monitor; the call button for the nurses’ station buzzing. But Brienne’s smile against his is all that matters, though Jaime’s arm is already telling him otherwise.

Fuck the arm.

Or Brienne. That seems like the better plan, actually.

“Huh.”

She kisses his cheek. “Have you managed a thought?”

“Mmhmm.”

When he doesn’t elaborate, she starts nudging his cheek with her nose. “Well?”

“Your name.”

“Yes,” says Brienne, slow, elongated. “I do have one. We went over this last night.”

Jaime rests his head against hers. “You aren’t Flat White.”

“I’m sure you’ll reach a point, eventually.”

Yawning, he tells her, “I don’t have to drink your shitty fucking order anymore.”

Brienne playfully slaps his face, then snuggles in closer.

It feels right.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my drift partner, [betts](http://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/pseuds/betts), and my Force sibling, [aerialiste](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aerialiste/pseuds/aerialiste) for their beta prowess and general all-around fabulotastitude. <3
> 
> [[the accompanying mood board for this fic](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/166695929209/flat-white-by-shiphitsthefan-jaimebrienne)]
> 
> [[about me](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/about)] [[tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/)] [[twitter](https://twitter.com/shiphitsthefan)]
> 
> Kudos and [comments](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/profile) validate my existence. <3


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